


He Keeps me Warm

by rem71090



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A Coffee shop AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Enjolras is a stressed student, Grantaire is a genius, I wish I was above, Literally and with Latte Art, M/M, but I'm not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rem71090/pseuds/rem71090
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a seasonal worker at Enjolras' favorite coffee shop. Enjolras is a student who certainly doesn't need help with midterms. Grantaire helps anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Keeps me Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MeMeMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMeMe/gifts).



> For MeMeMe, who was having problems getting midterms to do what she needed them to. 
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr: hellssamaritan!

The Musain hires seasonal workers in a way unlike that of most of their competitors. Musichetta, the general manager, hires a dozen workers for three weeks in mid-October, when the students at the three universities located within walking distance of the Musain are on mid-terms. The coffee shop is the only one in the city with the perfect trifecta of location, free-wifi, and 24-hour service, and as such the students flock to it without fail. She’s hired Grantaire every mid-term and finals season since he turned eighteen – he makes the best coffee she’s ever had (and she manages a coffee shop), does stupidly complex latte art in half the time it takes her to make a leaf (and she manages a coffee shop) and prefers the third shift. She offers, at the end of midterms or finals or whatever she is hiring warm bodies for, to give him a full time position, but he just laughs and waves the offer off. 

It is Grantaire’s first shift this midterms, and Musichetta had stayed just long enough to assure herself that Grantaire still knew how to steam milk and flirt with customers before she’d left him to the horde of undercaffeinated students with a cheery wave and a healthy shot of schadenfreude. He grinned back and went back to creating a clock in the cup of a pretty blonde girl who is probably a freshman. Musichetta can’t be sure, but she is pretty sure that it had shown the correct time. She doesn’t check – she has her own stressed college students to tend to, and if left alone any longer it is entirely possible that Bossuet would convince Joly he had whooping cough just to take both their minds off of their tests.

Grantaire, for his part, enjoys working with the students. At least, he enjoys it for the few weeks he is there before he moves on – but there is very little that Grantaire enjoys for more than a month at a time. The money is good, here, and the tips are better, and, of course, there is Enjolras. Enjolras who is standing in front of him with wide eyes and disheveled hair. 

“Grantaire” his voice sounds disused, which is ridiculous, considering exactly who Enjolras is.

“Hey Apollo”, Grantaire’s voice is deliberately casual – he has wanted to see Enjolras since the third week in May – when he’d gathered his things from around Eponine’s apartment and headed to a summer job at a theme park (he’d gotten drunk and ridden the Octopus after hours until all the lights had blurred together and life had seemed brighter, they hadn’t been please to find him curled up in the morning, but they also hadn’t fired him). He also has not been particularly anticipating this meeting. They had exchanged not particularly kind words at their last meeting – he doesn’t think he could stand it if the awkwardness followed them. Even as he worries he is starting a dirty pumpkin chai – two and a half shots of espresso.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming back.” Enjolras says hesitantly. Grantaire laughs, head thrown back and long neck accentuated in a way which, really, Enjolras thinks, is both unnecessary and unfair. 

“I always come back.” Grantaire flashes Enjolras a smile, teeth slightly stained from too much red wine and coffee, before bending over and dedicating himself to the top of Enjolras’ drink.

Enjolras draws himself up straighter, it is not an easy task – years of private school and family dinners have bred in Enjolras a constant awareness of his posture. He clears his throat. “Right. You do. Combeferre said – that is – about the last time we spoke” Grantaire’s head shoots up but his hand does not waver.

“Enjolras, are you trying to apologize?” his tone is so incredulous that Enjolras thinks he might be insulted. He had thought, for months, that he would never see Grantaire again. It had been… uncomfortable, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac had explained, in great detail, exactly why he had been wrong to say what he had. So.

“Yes.” It is only years of debate training which prevents Enjolras’ voice from raising as if in question. 

“No need. We’re as good as we ever were.” Grantaire promises while sliding Enjolras’ drink over. Enjolras isn’t sure why this reassurance makes him feel so hollow. He reaches for his wallet absently but Grantaire waves him off. Enjolras has never paid Grantaire for coffee. He looks down at his drink absently, does a double take. There is a naked man staring at him, with unrealistically detailed abs, a harp in one hand and a bow in the other. 

“Is this…” he trails off. 

“One sun god deserves another” Grantaire throws in an over the top wink before moving on to the next person in line. Enjolras has been dismissed, neatly. 

-

There had been a rush at midnight, when the Starbucks down the street had closed, and Grantaire had, for about a fifteen minute span resorted to drawing planets or hearts in coffee as the line looked increasingly homicidal. Enjolras hadn’t been able to get any work done for those fifteen minutes. Instead he stare at Grantaire, whose every movement was somehow both efficient and over the top. Watching him had been strangely meditative, and Enjolras had found himself thinking about early mornings and watching Grantaire move around the kitchen Enjolras shares with Combeferre – complete with a stupidly expensive and completely unused coffee machine. Grantaire is always so wide awake, always so ‘on’ Enjolras wonders what he looks like when he is sleep-soft.

It is later now, more morning than night, and the customers have resorted to looking at Grantaire desperately when they need more coffee. He has abandoned wiping down counters and machines and poured himself into the seat beside Enjolras at the bar. Enjolras occupies one of the only clear spaces, students having learned a long time ago that the comfort and convenience of sitting right at the coffee bar was not worth either Enjolras’ constant glowers or his cutting remarks when someone typed just a little too loud.   
“Power Transition Theory as it Relates to the Role of the Superpower in the 21st century: With Particular Emphasis on the China/United States Dynamic” he reads. “That’s quite a mouthful, Apollo”. 

“I do wish you’d stop calling me that. Enjolras says automatically. He attempts to grab at the papers Grantaire has stolen out from under him – Enjolras is fully aware that it makes him a terrible denizen of the 21st century, but he has to write his papers out before he can type them – trying to skip the middle step just leads to Enjolras staring blankly at a white screen and wondering how it is possible for a blinking cursor to come across as quite so judgmental. Grantaire does not relinquish the papers but he does slide a fresh drink over to Enjolras. This time there is an elaborate elephant looking up at him. Enjolras can see long eyelashes and a delicate headdress. He resists the urge to take a picture – Grantaire would never let him live it down. He buries his nose in the mug. Then, for a minute, he shuts his eyes.

It is, as it turns out, not just a minute. He wakes up with a shock as a hand lands heavily on his back. “’Ponine, we’ll both have something delicious and full of sugar and caffeine” Courfeyrac shouts down to the barista. Enjolras has, apparently, slept long enough for Grantaire to leave and be replaced by the ever surly, and darkly lovely Eponine. 

“ – time is it?” He asks absently, and then “Courfeyrac what time is it?” He jolts up, looking with confusion at the sweatshirt his head was pillowed on. Dark blue, Enjolras typically avoids the color – he prefers red. 

“Relax Enjolras. It’s only 7:30, ish.” Enjolras stares suspiciously at his friend. Courfeyrac is a hedonist by nature, and it is unlike him to be so awake before, at the earliest, ten. But a glance at his phone (18% charge. Oops) confirms that he has not been lied to. Enjolras’ first class (and test) is at 8:30 so, if Eponine is fast and he hurries, he can make it back to his apartment and change before he has to be there. It is just a French test – and he has been fluent in that language since he was a child (but they wouldn’t let him test out of anymore classes, and he is also fluent in Spanish and Latin) so he is not particularly worried about his score. 

He throws some money at Courfeyrac and gathers all his papers. Eponine thrusts a to-go cup into Enjolras’ hands as he dashes away. It is colder than he thought it would be – but Enjolras is notorious for dressing for the temperature of his apartment and then going out in completely weather inappropriate weather. Combeferre had taken to texting him reminders to put on his coat last winter. He shrugs into the sweatshirt as he walks.

It smells like smoke and coffee and paint. Like Grantaire. It doesn’t fit quite right. Enjolras is taller than Grantaire, and wider in the shoulders – so it does not quite cover the edge of his t-shirt and Enjolras doesn’t have full range of motion – but that doesn’t change the fact that this is the most comfortable sweatshirt he has ever worn. Without really thinking about it, Enjolras puts it back on when after his record fast shower.

People stare when he walks into the classroom – Enjolras is normally more put together than this; than wet hair and jeans with a hole in the knee and a sweatshirt a size too small. He stares back contentiously, but it isn’t long before Jehan beams at him and Enjolras slinks into a chair.

“Are you ready?” He asks.

“Oui!” Jehan chirps, and unlike Enjolras, Jehan’s energy is not the product of obscene amounts of caffeine.

“Then I won’t say ‘Good Luck’” Enjolras grins – it isn’t a common facial expression for him, but Jehan has a tendency to bring it out. 

“Oh. You can still say it. I never turn down luck” 

“Good morning class” Madame Scott strides in, all heavy French accent and confidence “Close your books and your mouths, it is time to have some fun.”

Enjolras leans down to grab a pen from his bag and whispers “Bon chance” 

“Monsieur Enjolras, ferme ta bouche” she snaps quickly.

“Oui Madame, pardonnez-moi” Enjolras is polite, although he wants, rather a lot, to ask that she speak to her students with respect. Combeferre had pointed out that Enjolras’ habit of antagonizing professors was not necessarily conducive to getting law school recommendations, and while Enjolras doesn’t really care what Madame Scott thinks about him, Dr. LaMarque might.

She hands out the exams and Enjolras looks through it and winces. It is easy enough for him, but it is harder than she has any right to expect from his classmates. He thinks, as he absently answers a question about what he plans on doing this weekend, about writing a letter to the head of Language department. There have been dozens of complaints about Madame Scott – it probably wouldn’t be that hard to convince his classmates to sign a protest. Not that now is the best time to be thinking about it, Enjolras has two more midterms to take this week in addition to a paper to finish and type. He does not have time to protest the general unfairness of a professor asking her students to do things she did not prepare them for.

Enjolras stifles a yawn. He thinks he’ll go back to the apartment and nap before he goes back to the coffee shop and powers through another night of revisions. 

-

Enjolras’ nap ends up being pretty close to a full night’s sleep – his eyes are shut from 10 AM until Combeferre comes home at 5. Combeferre is in his first semester in med school and almost never home. He always tries to shut the door quietly (Enjolras never bothers), but it is a heavy door, and the noise it makes is enough to startle Enjolras from his nest of blankets.

This time he panics upon waking up. His phone, where he unplugs it, aggressively reminds him that the alarm went off five hours ago. Five hours of work he hasn’t done. Combeferre has brought left over Chinese home and as Enjolras rushes for his backpack he puts it on a plate and sticks it in the microwave. 

“Sit. Eat.”

“No time” Enjolras counters desperately.

“You can work while you eat.” Enjolras sighs, but he knows better than to argue with Combeferre. His best friend was resolute, and while he often yielded to Enjolras’ wishes, he was immovable when it came to Enjolras’ own health. Enjolras picks absently at the lo mein as he retrieves his papers out of his textbook.

What on earth was he thinking last night? His pages aren’t in any sort of order, shoved randomly into three different books. He leaves them where they are, hoping that there was some sort of reason in his madness last night which will come to him if he just thinks about it a little more. He does retrieve the first page from where it is stuck in Power Transitions: Strategies for the 21st Century and, not all of the writing on it is his.

There is tight, angular writing across the page:

Interesting premise Apollo, but a little cliché for what I would expect from you – did you think about something like “the influence of government amenities on the migration propensity of young adults”? I think the Tiebout-Tullock hypothesis might have been interesting there.

And then 

I’m not sure I agree with this – try rereading page 78 - I bookmarked it with this paper for you. 

Enjolras rereads his whole paper – careful to ensure that he leaves a page marker where Grantaire had left his essay. He has left comments like that everywhere – his paper is strong, but Grantaire has found every possible objection and backed it up with quotes from his book or references to journal articles that Enjolras has not always read. And, damn it, Grantaire is right, that would have been a more interesting paper. Enjolras was planning on doing a follow up of his first paper for his final, perhaps concentrating on ‘small powers’ – but he thinks he might change his topic.

Without noticing, while reading, Enjolras has finished his plate. He looks at Combeferre aghast. “Did you know Grantaire could do this?” He gestures to his papers.

“Hmm?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras shoves his paper at his friend. 

“How does he know all this?”

“You should ask him.”

“You’re right. I’ll go now.” Enjolras stands and begins to look for his shoes. One of them is sticking out from under the sofa, but he’s pretty sure he saw the other one in the bathroom. He marvels at himself, on occasion. 

“Go where, exactly?” Combeferre asks, “Grantaire’s shift doesn’t start until eleven” He is probably staying at Eponine’s, Enjolras knows, but Grantaire has a lot of friends in the city and he could be staying with any one of them. If he was home at all, it was – Enjolras glanced at the clock – 8. Grantaire would probably be out with Bahoral or Eponine. 

“You might as well start actually typing that mess.” Combeferre looks with distaste at the pile of pages spread across his normally pristine kitchen table. 

“I guess.” Enjolas is not sulking. He is also not more enraptured with Grantaire’s mind the more he types. It isn’t often that Enjolras is persuaded to change his mind, but multiple times he finds himself tweaking his arguments in accord with Grantaire’s comments. He is ten pages in before he even thinks to look at a clock. 10:45. 

He isn’t even thinking about it when he shuts his laptop and grabs his paper. He is thinking about it when he changes out of his jeans and Grantaire’s sweatshirt. A red shirt which Jehan had given him for his birthday, jeans again, but a little tighter and without holes, a jacket, leather, Grantaire has expressed a fondness. Enjolras looks more casual, still, than he usually does, but Enjolras is not afflicted with false modesty and he also knows that he looks very good. He doesn’t run down to the shop – sweat would not add anything to the look he is presenting, but he does walk faster than normal. 

Word, though, has spread that Grantaire is back, and the line when he gets there is as long as it ever is. Grantaire is a perennial favorite. Grantaire is currently making 3-D figures out of coffee as though he is completely unaware of what is happening inside Enjolras’ head. But he can’t be. He, more than Enjolras, knows what he did. He is becoming increasingly frantic as he waits in the line, impatience crawling like ants under his skin. 

By the time he gets to Grantaire all his articulate questions have flown out of his mind. Grantaire smiles at him and starts making his customary coffee but all Enjolras can ask “Why? How?”

“Surely you weren’t judging my intelligence based on my job?”

Enjolras gapes “No. Obviously not. But this is pretty specific information. You knew page numbers.”

Grantaire shrugs “I read the books.”

“Why?”

Grantaire shrugs again “Why do you do it?”

“Because I have to – even I wouldn’t read these books for fun!”

Grantaire smiles “Yes you would.”

Enjolras takes a moment to acknowledge that, yes, he would “but you wouldn’t!”

“Combeferre gave me your syllabi – he said he wasn’t going to have time to help you this semester.” And more questions fly into Enjolras’ mind.

“You talk to Combeferre?” Enjolras does not ask ‘but not me?’ but he thinks it.

“And Courgeyrac and Jehan and Marius, everyone really.” Grantaire answers easily.

This time Enjolras cannot resist the urge “But not me?”

Grantaire smiles softly at him “You never gave me your number” and, no, Enjolras hadn’t. Which has been a gross oversight on his part. It is then that he remembers a more important question.

“But why did you want to help – especially after how we left it last time?”

“I was never angry with you Apollo. If you needed help, I wanted to be able to help you.” Grantaire says it simply, as though it is a fact that he would help Enjolras in any way. It is the simplicity of his response which makes Enjolras’ heart clench.

“Why?” He scans Enjolras’ face desperately. It has gone strangely blank, normally so vivd.

“If you have to ask that, Apollo, you haven’t been paying attention.” Grantaire gives Enjolras his coffee and, this time, it is far simpler than any of his other creations. One large heart with three smaller hearts lining the side.

Enjolras smiles.


End file.
